Tabula Rasa
by GinnyRules
Summary: "You're not in any position to be dictating terms, Tom," she said through gritted teeth. "You'll do as I tell you."... "Don't call me Tom."... "No arguments, Tom." / AU Humor/Romance. Hermione is assigned as Voldemort's criminal case worker. Hijinks ensue.


**A/N:** I've never written anything blatantly AU before, or anything quite so directed towards humor. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this crazy mess of a fic. Not to worry, this isn't taking me away from "Of Ash and Flame," I just got an unstoppable plot bunny. I hope you like it. Cheers!

**TABULA RASA**

"This is too much, decidedly. I tell you, I won't do it."

The early morning frost clung to the streetlights as a tall man in a dark cloak and a young woman with bushy brown hair crossed a deserted street in Muggle London, pausing to gaze at a solitary automobile as the driver honked impatiently at them. The man's lip curled back in a startled snarl and his hand dove reflexively into his pocket, as though itching for a wand with which to curse the Muggle driver. But his fingers closed upon nothing but emptiness.

"That," said the woman, "is a taxi cab. And as you're not allowed a car—Robards has determined you'd be likely to try to run people over—you'll need to learn how to use them."

The man raised his hand to massage his temples, breathing deeply to calm himself. Thin silver circlets hovered around his wrists, unimpeded by gravity; a symbol of his captivity.

"We're here," the woman announced as they stepped onto the sidewalk and faced a dirty plate glass door bearing a flickering neon sign that read 'Enter.' The sun was just peeking over the rooftops, bathing the street in reticent light diffused by the stubborn quilt of clouds hovering over the city. It would have been a perfectly ordinary morning if not for the shooting stars and flocks of owls streaking across the sky every few minutes.

"I won't, I tell you!" repeated the man. His tone was that of a stubborn toddler refusing a plate of vegetables, and the woman closed her eyes, sighing deeply.

"You're not in any position to be dictating terms, Tom," she said through gritted teeth. "You'll do as I tell you."

"Don't call me Tom."

"No arguments, Tom."

They stepped into the cramped and filthy office, Tom standing back naturally to hold the door open for the bushy-haired woman. She stared at him as though he were a Flobberworm who had learned to perform cartwheels, and pulled out a clipboard as she approached the front desk.

"Islington employment office," said a bored looking woman with mousy brown hair as they approached. Her eyes remained fixed on the small, boxy television set at the end of her desk. "How can I assist you?"

"Hermione Granger," said the woman, "probationary officer for Thomas Riddle. We're here for Mr. Riddle's job placement."

Thomas Riddle looked all around the room for blunt objects with which to knock himself unconscious.

"One mo'," said the woman, still without looking up. She delved into a desk drawer, sifting through mounds of paperwork that seemed to follow no particular organizational schematic, and produced a battered file stained with something that might, optimistically, have been raspberry marmalade. Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"Oh come on, you know he's the one that done kilt them!" the mousy-haired woman yelped abruptly.

Riddle and Hermione Granger exchanged a startled glance.

"I beg your pardon?" said Hermione.

"No, not you, sorry," replied the woman, gesturing at the television set. "Hang on." She leafed through Riddle's file, her eyebrows flying up. "Says here Thomas Riddle's to be assigned as the Home Economics teacher at the Bridge Outreach School."

Hermione let out a strangled noise and gaped at the woman. "W-what?"

"Permanent teacher's on a mental health holiday," said the woman, shrugging.

"Your office has, er, been made aware of the... particularities of Mr. Riddle's case?" asked Hermione weakly.

The woman popped a piece of chewing gum into her mouth. "Says in his file he's got experience in 'group management' and 'antiques dealing.' Meets minimum requirements. Qualified applicants're hard to come by these days." She snapped her gum, turning up the volume on the television.

"I really don't think—" Hermione began weakly.

"If you don't sign off on the placement he gets remanded into your care for a two week period until he can be reassigned," the woman interrupted testily.

_Merlin's pants_. Hermione scratched her head and finally relented, nodding. She wondered how it had come to this.

"Housing project code's on the front cover," said the mousy-haired woman, tossing the battered file at Hermione.

"Right. Thanks a lot."

The woman looked up as Hermione and Riddle left, just in time to mutter vaguely to herself, "Was it that bloke didn't have a nose, then?"

* * *

"This," said Hermione, "is an alarm system. You enter the code here, and no one can break into your house without your knowledge."

The term 'house' was perhaps a generous one, Hermione reflected, looking around at the one-room flat with its musty wallpaper and cigarette-stained carpet. Still, Riddle was lucky not to be rotting away in a cell in Azkaban. The Ministry had become rather overzealous in its attempts to wipe out the corruption of the old regime. The result was a rehabilitation program which sapped former Death Eaters of their magic and allowed them to start their lives anew in the Muggle world. A crueler punishment, in short, than life in Azkaban.

"Anyone who attempts forcible entry into my home will meet a _swift_ death," growled Riddle, giving the alarm system a look of disdain.

"That's exactly the kind of attitude that led you here in the first place."

"... Can I at least have something to occupy my time in this hovel?" He did not meet Hermione's eyes. "Some books, perhaps?"

Hermione's response was drowned by a strident, drawn-out yell of despair from overhead. Riddle looked up at the ceiling, startled.

"This whole apartment complex is reserved for top security offenders," Hermione explained. "Bellatrix Lestrange is above you. Very nasty temperament."

"Are you having her tortured?" asked Riddle with faint interest.

"No, I believe she's entertaining Fenrir Greyback. They have their own version of exploding snap and it's not for the faint of heart. And to answer your question, protocol doesn't allow you any non-essential personal items. So no, I can't requisition any books for you. Good evening, Tom."

"Good evening, Mudblood," said Riddle as she walked out the door.

Hermione aimed a rude hand gesture at him through the wall before forcing herself to take a calming breath and climbing the stairs to the second floor. There she knocked on the door to number twelve and pursed her lips, bracing herself.

"HEM, HEM!" came a cry from behind the door, inviting her inside.

"Good morning, Dolores," said Hermione, eyeing the woman's frilly turquoise bonnet with poorly concealed exasperation. "I'm here for your weekly inspection."

"As you can see nothing here is amiss, Miss Granger!" said Dolores Umbridge with a girlish simper.

"Indeed? Because I have here—" Hermione pulled out her clipboard once more, "an item retrieved from the flat of one Peter Pettigrew. Do you recognize it, Dolores?"

"Hem, hem!" Umbridge protested, backing away. Hermione advanced mercilessly, holding up a sheet of paper on which the words "I must not commit acts of cheese thievery while in rat form" had been written many times in blood and waving it in Umbridge's face.

"I'd like to know how you managed to get your hands on one of these quills," said Hermione clearly.

"It was Quirinius!" Umbridge squealed, quailing before Hermione's furious gaze. "He's been peddling all sorts of contraband. He keeps it in that nasty turban of his!"

"Fenrir!" came a shriek through the wall. "Those are not for eating!"

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and prayed for patience.

* * *

"Inner city delinquent students don't respond well to jibes about the purity of their mothers' blood, Tom," said Hermione grimly, dabbing a foul-smelling yellow paste onto the angry purple bruise swelling across the bridge of Riddle's nose.

She noticed that he had furnished his flat entirely with mismatched items of seaweed green, every single item of which had been smashed or defiled in some way. It amused her to think of the Dark Lord venting his temper on inoffensive pieces of furniture, and she smirked to herself.

"If you're going to laugh at my misfortunes, Mudblood, I would just as soon tend to my own injuries."

"Well I'd just as soon you didn't," Hermione responded impassibly. "It would reflect poorly on me to have you die under my watch, and as Saint Mungo's is full up at the moment this is your only option for medical care."

"Bellatrix makes a racket at all hours of the night," Riddle complained.

"That's unfortunate," said Hermione. "But on the other hand, you've murdered thousands of innocents, so I don't know that you're really in a position to complain about a want of minor creature comforts."

"You Mudbloods are all so soft-hearted," he returned as she finished tending to his bruises and stood, making note of the incident on her clipboard.

"So, Tom," she said briskly, ignoring him, "next time I suggest you try listening to your students rather than implying that they look and smell like filthy animals."

"Don't call me Tom."

"Goodbye, Tom." She turned when she reached the door. "Since when have you had a nose, then?"

Riddle grimaced. "The features of my ignoble father have been resurfacing in my visage since you savages saw fit to sap me of my magic."

_Interesting_. Hermione forced herself not to snicker at the sight of his face covered in ugly yellow paste, and made her way to the Disapparition point in the lobby. She Apparated directly into the Ministry of Magic Atrium and made the mistake of striding into a lift alongside Gawain Robards, whom she had not initially recognized with her thoughts still absorbed by Riddle's misadventures.

"Ah, Miss Granger," said Robards pompously."I trust things are going well in your Department?" Without waiting for her to answer, he went on, "How about joining me for dinner this Friday after work? I have a reservation at _Le Poltergeist_."

"I'm afraid I'm rather busy at the moment," said Hermione hastily, trying to shield herself from his prying gaze with her clipboard.

He waved an airy hand. "Come, now, we are in peacetime at last, Miss Granger. How busy can you truly be?"

"As head of the Office for Criminal Casework Management, I daresay I'm busy enough," she retorted coldly.

Robards scowled. "Then perhaps your workload ought to be lessened. I might speak to Shacklebolt about reassigning you."

Hermione opened her mouth to declare her outrage at his unabashed blackmail before remembering that the project overseer, a liaison from the Auror office, likely would not take her side against Robards, because after all... _Ron, oh Ron_. How had she alienated him so without meaning any harm? More devoted to her work than to him, indeed. And Harry would endeavor to remain neutral, but would back Ron in the end, she knew he would.

"Very well," she snapped, stepping briskly out of the lift and shooting Robards a glare over her shoulder. He was giving her a smarmy look that made bile rise in her throat. "I'll join you for dinner this once, Mr. Robards, and that's all."

"Call me Gawain," he said.

"Good day, Mr. Robards."

* * *

The mousy-haired woman snapped her sickly green spearmint gum and shoved a sheaf of paperwork at Hermione in a bad-tempered sort of way.

"What do you mean, reassigned?" Hermione exclaimed.

"He incited twenty-eight teenaged children to engage in a fight to the death to decide on the class president title, didn'e?"

Hermione rounded on Riddle, who smirked unapologetically.

"It's going to take me ages to get you reassigned!" she said, throwing her hands into the air in exasperation. "Why couldn't you just put it to a vote?"

"Have you seen the imbeciles Muggles elect when they're given a vote?" asked Riddle, quirking his eyebrows. He had eyebrows now, Hermione noted. That was new. His voice had lost its high timbre, as well, dropping to a more tolerable register. After mere weeks he was nearly unrecognizable.

"Muggles?" said the gum-chewing woman, looking up from her television with interest.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione pointed her wand into the woman's face and, almost absently, muttered "Obliviate." She gave Riddle a reproachful look. "What have I said about discretion?"

"Excellent form," he remarked, gesturing to her wand. On second thought he added, "For a Mudblood."

"You bloody fool, can't you see he's plotting to steal your sister's fortune?" the mousy-haired woman shouted unexpectedly.

"I believe she's referring to the television," said Riddle when Hermione looked confused.

"Right."

Once they had Apparated back to his lobby and climbed the stairs to his flat she strode towards the far wall and opened his refrigerator box. It was empty except for a single bottle of Ogden's Old. Hermione shook her head and pulled a number of bags she had obtained at the greengrocers' from her pockets, which had been enlarged through a number of undetectable extension charms.

"This," said Hermione, pointing to the squat metal box on his grimy countertop, "is a microwave."

"Yes, I've ascertained it can be used to inflict a just and painful death upon insects and vermin who deign to enter my domain," said Riddle with satisfaction.

"No," said Hermione firmly. "No, that's not—A microwave is designed to cook your food for you." She opened one of the grocery bags and produced a frozen dinner. "You put this box in the microwave, you see, and press this button, and that's how you feed yourself."

"My talents are wasted on inane Muggle contraptions. Perhaps you'd like to stay and eat with me lest I electrocute myself."

"I can't," Hermione told him, and for some reason blushed crimson. She cleared her throat. "I have a, er, date."

Riddle looked at her as though she had suddenly begun declaiming in Mermish. She felt inexplicably annoyed.

"There's no need to look like that, Tom," she snapped. "Yes, a date. Someone asked me, a Mudblood, on a date."

"Don't call me Tom."

Hermione shook her head in dismay and made for the door. "I'll send word of your reassignment tomorrow by Muggle post."

"Goodbye then, Hermione," he said slyly.

"Don't call me that."

"You would prefer Mudblood?"

"I would prefer to have to make fewer trips here altogether, to be honest."

She glanced over her shoulder and could have sworn she saw him looking genuinely offended.

"Until next time, Tom."

He nodded. "Hermione."

* * *

The maitre'd at _Le Poltergeist_ was embarrassingly gracious upon Hermione's arrival, seating her and Robards in a private booth and bowing so low that his glasses slipped down his nose and smashed against the polished floor. Robards threw his cloak negligently into the man's arms as the maitre'd flushed and excused himself to fix his glasses, and proceeded to drop into his chair with a dramatic sigh.

"Nasty business, this embargo on Turkish bullfrogs," said Robards, snapping his fingers impatiently to beckon a waiter. "I've had to put Potter on it. We've had whole hosts of protestors mobilizing on the border. Damn near turned into a mob this morning."

"I, er, don't think bullfrogs are a Turkish import," Hermione pointed out.

"Oh? Yes, perhaps it was Chimera eggs. In any case, I've had a very trying day. My influence is considered of the utmost importance in this matter, you know."

"I don't doubt it," Hermione muttered.

Mistaking her sarcasm, Robards ploughed on, "Indeed, there are few Departments which do not seek my council on a daily basis. I've been meaning to speak to you about your Criminal Casework, in fact. Word has reached my ears that Quirinius Quirrel is hosting bacchanals in the housing project's boiler room and supplying the Death Eaters with Firewhiskey. I would be happy to assist you in providing them with a, shall we say, firmer hand—"

"I assure you that won't be necessary," said Hermione shortly. She was relieved when the waiter arrived to take their orders.

"Miss Granger," said the waiter in a nervous, reedy voice. "An honor, if I may say so! I acquired a special edition copy of your Chocolate Frog Card just this morning!"

"The lady will have the lobster bisque," Robards interrupted without consulting Hermione. He mispronounced bisque so that it sounded like '_bee-squay_.' "Along with a bottle of your finest Beaujolais—"

"Actually," she cut across him, "I'm allergic to seafood and I don't drink wine when I plan on making it an early morning."

"Nonsense!" Robards began, but broke off when a twittering Elf Owl darted into the booth like a bullet and dropped a scroll of parchment in Hermione's bread basket.

_Oh, thank Godric_, she thought with relief as she unfurled it and read the brief message from Harry.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Robards, but I'm going to have to cut the evening short," she announced, pressing a number of sickles into the waiter's hand for his troubles. "I'm needed in Islington. There's been some trouble with the Death Eaters."

She had raced out of the restaurant before Robards could splutter a protest, and Apparated swiftly into the lobby of the housing project. She could hear The Hobgoblins blaring out of a Wizarding Wireless somewhere downstairs and ground her teeth together, preparing to deliver the sermon of her life.

"Eight minutes, fifty-three seconds," said a pleasant voice, and Hermione turned to see Riddle leaning against the lobby counter, looking unacceptably handsome. She could not place the magnitude of the change which had come over him until she looked up to throw him a furious glare. Her breath caught in her throat: the red had gone from his eyes. They were now dark and fathomless and handsome as his father's.

"Beg pardon?" croaked Hermione, scrambling to collect herself.

Riddle smirked. "Since I instigated this gathering of ours in the boiler room. Eight minutes and fifty-three seconds. You must have made your way here with some haste. Am I to take it that your date was not quite up to par?"

"Did you—did you do this on _purpose?_" said Hermione incredulously. "Just to ruin my evening?"

"I was offering you an out," said Riddle, shrugging. "If your evening had been so captivating I daresay you might not have abandoned it in such a hurry, yes?

"Have you any idea how, inappropriate—how unacceptable—?" Hermione's outrage was rendering her incoherent.

"You seem tightly wound," Riddle observed. "Join us for a drink."

He strode past her, brushing just a little too close. Hermione's brain jammed and she followed him without thinking, down the stairs and into the smoky, crowded boiler room where what looked like the building's entire population was swaying in time with the music, stumbling into one another and engaging in halfhearted scuffles. Over by the refreshments table Alecto Carrow was draping herself all over Lucius Malfoy while the latter edged away as quickly as his drunken, shaky legs would carry him. Umbridge was waddling after Yaxley and waving one of her savage, pointed quills in his face.

"How..." Hermione's eyes bulged out of her head.

"You'd be surprised how much Quirrel can fit in that turban of his," said Riddle, offering her a glass of neat whiskey. Hermione grimaced and shook her head.

He gave her an odd, intent sort of look. "If you have a drink, I'll let you call me Tom."

* * *

"Blimey, Hermione, you look terrible," said Harry with a bemused smile, stepping aside to let her inside his house.

'House' was perhaps too humble a word, Hermione reflected, gazing around appreciatively at Harry and Ginny's Manor. It was the oldest dwelling in Godric's Hollow, and furnished in the finest antique furniture gold could buy. Kreacher hurried forward to take Hermione's coat, sinking into a deep bow.

"Please," said Hermione, "don't shout."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "I wasn't shouting."

"Would Miss care for a refreshment?" squeaked Kreacher, and Hermione winced. "Master has received a bottle of Madame Rosmerta's finest Oak Matured Mead, or—"

"No, no, thank you Kreacher," said Hermione at once, her stomach churning at the very thought.

"What's happened to you?" asked Harry as they entered the sitting room and seated themselves by the fireplace. "Riddle's lot didn't give you a hard time last night did they? I'd've looked after it myself if not for that stupid clause in article fifteen of the Magical Law Enforcement code that requires an offender's assigned officer to impose sanctions." He eyed the dark circles under her eyes. "They didn't _drug_ you or something?"

Hermione shook her head. "I was coerced into—never mind, it was my own bloody fault." Then, without warning, she burst into tears.

"What—but—" Harry spluttered, looking acutely uncomfortable. "Er, what's the matter?"

She took deep gulps of air, sniffling and dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. "It's t—too much. I was so p—pleased to get this assignment, you know, to p—prove myself. I thought what a wonderful opportunity it would be to give those—_awful_ people the lesson they deserve. But they d—don't respond to _anything!_ And Umbridge keeps sneaking new quills somehow and Pettigrew's escaped five times already, and each time he's been brought back bloodied and beaten to a pulp because Muggles keep trying to mug him for his silver hand, and Robards says I'll get a reprimand next time unless I go to dinner with him. And Quirrel c—can apparently fit an entire liquor cabinet in his turban and Bellatrix Lestrange's floor keeps caving in because she and Greyback are doing G-Godric knows what in her flat and—and—and Ron was right! My work has taken over my life, and somehow, _somehow_, Tom bloody Riddle is the only one who seems to be making any progress and that's—that's mad, isn't it?"

"Hermione," said Harry gently, placing a warm, steadying hand over hers. "First of all, listen to what you're saying, will you? You just said '_Ron was right._' "

Hermione gave a watery chuckle and smiled gratefully up at him.

"Secondly," Harry went on, "if Robards thinks he can harass you like that he's got a big surprise coming. You can't let them get you down, Hermione. You've had more of an effect than you might think." He paused, looking suddenly pensive. "I visited him, you know. Riddle."

Hermione frowned.

"I think I was planning to beat his face in," said Harry, "or just sit there and laugh and laugh at him until he went mad. Or stare at him until I could convince myself how miserable he was, maybe. And you know what he said? He gave me the password to a Romanian bank vault where he'd hidden all the gold he put away during his reign of terror. Told me to use it to rebuild Hogwarts."

Kreacher reappeared with a tray of miniature sandwiches, which he presented with such a guileless, toothy smile that Hermione took pity on him and forced one down. It tasted divine, but her stomach squirmed nonetheless.

Harry waved Kreacher away. "He said he didn't have an ounce of regret. But he gave me the money. Over eight million Galleons, all told. You know what? I reckon with all those Horcruxes gone and all his magic sapped away he's not really Voldemort anymore. He _can't_ be. He's just going through the motions or something. It was the oddest thing I'd ever seen. I couldn't even hit him. I couldn't even laugh. So don't tell me your program hasn't had any effect. Eight million Galleons towards Hogwarts and Saint Mungo's, that makes a hell of a difference."

"He's got a nose now," said Hermione after an amicable silence.

"Odd, isn't it?" Harry agreed.

Somewhat cheered, if not cured of the nasty pounding in her head, Hermione Apparated to the Ministry and was very sorry indeed when the first sight that greeted her as she materialized in the Atrium was Gawain Robards's face.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed. It felt as though a power drill was barrelling into her head. "You left so abruptly last night that there was no time to reschedule. How would you like to join me tonight at my cottage in Hogsmead for a more _intimate_ evening? Just you and I and a bottle of Champagne, eh? How about it?"

All at once Kreacher's sandwich and the sensation of apparition and the splitting pain in her head were too much, and she pitched forward and vomited the entire contents of her stomach on Robards's shoes.

* * *

Hermione dropped a pile of heavy leather-bound books onto Riddle's tiny kitchen table with a thunk.

"There," she said. "Nothing dark. These are strictly permissible books."

Riddle pulled his head out of the refrigerator box and glanced at her, running a hand through his dark, messy hair to push it out of his eyes. Merlin, but he didn't look a day over eighteen! It was as though his body had reverted to the state it had been in immediately before he had begun making his Horcruxes.

_Focus_, Hermione told herself sternly.

"I thought I wasn't allowed books," he said.

"I didn't requisition these, they're mine. I thought if I brought you something to occupy yourself you might not resort to throwing parties in the boiler room."

"You brought me your own books?" He approached, looking interested, but his face fell when he eyed the pile. "_Travels With Trolls? Voyages With Vampires? Gilderoy Lockart's Magical Me?_ You must be joking."

"I didn't say they were good books."

"Hermione—"

"Don't call me that."

"Hermione, what the hell is a witch like you even doing with this rubbish?"

Hermione's cheeks turned red and she looked away, furious with herself. "He was a professor of mine once."

"A favorite professor, apparently," Riddle said sardonically.

"If you don't want the books, I can take them away."

"Well, don't."

He was looking at her with a particular sort of intensity that she did not like one bit—No, she liked it very much. And that was what bothered her. He swept the books aside and leaned across the table to face her, always a bit too close, and what would have happened next neither of them had the chance to find out, because an explosive scuffle burst through the stillness out in the hall. They looked at one another for a brief moment more before racing out of the flat to find Carrow and Barty Crouch Jr. supporting a half-conscious Peter Pettigrew, whose blood was flowing freely onto the crapet.

"Peter!" Hermione groaned. "Why must you _always_ do this? How many times do you have to get pummelled before it sinks in that you _can't_ get away?"

"Dolores was being hateful," Pettigrew complained faintly. "And none of the Blacks would let me join them for Gobstones. No one will hang around with me."

"Quirrel's got Gobstones now?" Hermione cried. "What's next, a Quidditch league?"

"Only on Fridays," Crouch supplied helpfully, smiling at her. Riddle stepped forward.

"It looks like your femoral artery has been punctured, Wormtail," he said. "You might like to transform for the time being, if you're interested in avoiding death."

Pettigrew's beady eyes widened in fear and in an instant Carrow and Crouch's hands closed upon empty air as a quivering, balding rat fell to the floor. Hermione conjured a glass jar with her wand, summoned Pettigrew, and placed him inside, nodding her thanks at Riddle. It was only then that she noticed the avid, hungry way all three wizards were gazing at her wand.

"I had best take this—take Peter to the Ministry," said Hermione hurriedly. "Good day to you, Amycus—"

"Good day to you, Mudblood."

"Bartemius—"

"Mudblood."

"Tom."

"Hermione."

* * *

"Don't tell me he's been reassigned again!" Hermione shouted.

The mousy-haired woman's gum snapped, and she tore her eyes away from the television with ill grace.

"No," she said in a bored voice. "He's been promoted. The warden dropped a note. Apparently the inmates've never been so orderly since Mr. Riddle joined the staff."

"I'll bet," said Hermione before she could help herself. She glanced at Riddle. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"I've reduced crime at Belmarsh by thirty-eight percent," he commented mildly. Hermione did not think she was imagining the irony in his tone. He brushed his hair from his eyes again. She swallowed.

"Kiss him, you idiotic scag!" the mousy-haired woman bellowed at the television. Hermione jumped and looked hastily away from Riddle.

After escorting Riddle back to his flat Hermione stopped in at a delicatessen for a late breakfast. Then she Apparated to the Ministry and was assaulted by an interdepartmental memo which fluttered about her head with undue fervor. Hermione pulled it open and read with increasing disbelief.

_Hermione,_

_Strings were pulled. Don't ask me which ones, just don't. But Gawain Robards is going to announce his retirement later this afternoon, and he's going to recommend me as his successor. I'm going to decline. Couldn't stand a management level position, truthfully. The job's yours, if you want it. Don't tell Ron I offered it to you first. Don't breathe a word of this until it's official. I know you've got your sights set on Magical Creatures, but I have to tell you I think you'd be able to have much more of an impact on actual legislation from our end. I won't be in today, I'm tracking a black market operation in Stockholm. Owl me your decision, it'll find me._

_Best,_

_Harry._

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione whispered, a few happy tears leaking from her eyes. She scrawled a quick memo to her superior to announce that she was running late before turning on the spot once more, intending to Apparate home to write to Harry and to her parents.

Instead, upon opening her eyes, she found herself standing in the lobby of the Death Eaters' building.

_What the bloody hell—?_

Hermione had read of such mishaps, and supposed she should count herself lucky not to have been splinched. Yet to have Apparated so far off her mark had to mean that she had been thinking of this location rather intently, if only subconsciously.

"Nineteen minutes, twenty-five seconds."

Riddle emerged from the shadows of the lobby desk and smiled at her, that magnetic, electrifying smile that made her stomach perform vertiginous back flips.

"Excuse me?" she said.

"Nineteen minutes, twenty-five seconds since I sent Robards a compilation of all the information on his crooked dealings with Bulgarian tradesmen I once amassed while incapacitated in Albania. News travels quickly. I am lucky Quirrel was disposed to obtain an owl for me this morning."

"You—but—you—" Hermione stuttered. "That's blackmail!"

Riddle smiled crookedly. "You're welcome."

"What... what _happened_ to you?"

In place of an answer he reached forward and grasped her hands, spinning her around so that her back was pressed against the desk. He grasped her face in cool, steady hands and kissed her. Tall and lean and intoxicating, he kissed her until her head spun and she pulled back, her breathing shallow.

"Tom..."

His lips smiled against hers, and she felt giddy.

"Tom."

"Yes?"

"Tom."

He laughed and kissed her again, more insistently, his hands tangling in her hair. She grasped his collar, sighing as his lips pressed against her jaw, the crook of her neck, her shoulder. Nothing, nothing at all, could have prepared her...

_One minute forty-three seconds_, she thought before all thought could be entirely extinguished, _since we began anew._


End file.
